


Magic Glows Green

by Midorisakura (Calacious)



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Community: cottoncandy_bingo, First Time, Hazy consent, Lowered inhibitions, M/M, Sex Pollen, Smut, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Midorisakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they all go out for drinks, Fiona buys a special drink for Michael, and it shakes up his entire world-view, spins him like a top, makes him taste words and has Jesse always been that pretty?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic Glows Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csi_sanders1129](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csi_sanders1129/gifts).



> My take on the 'sex pollen' trope.
> 
> Using this for cotton_candy's square: lights
> 
> Much mahalos go to CSI_sanders1129, who read and encouraged throughout the writing process. :-)
> 
>  
> 
> Would like to know what people think of this - if you're so inclined.

Blood’s boiling inside his veins. He’s Mt. Vesuvius just before the end of the world. It burns inside of him, and he’s got an itch that needs scratching. It’s bubbling beneath the surface of his skin.

Jesse’s sitting at the bar. Drink in hand. And there’s a strange, greenish halo around him that Michael finds attractive. Like honey to a bear. Nectar to a bee. Jesse’s his honey-nectar, and Michael needs a taste. Maybe a little more than a taste.

“Uh, Michael?” Jesse’s voice cracks, and he pushes Michael’s arm off his shoulder. “You okay man? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

Michael laughs. He’s not green, Jesse is. And Jesse tastes like whiskey sour and peanuts, not at all like honey or nectar, but it doesn’t matter because it’s a taste that Michael suddenly craves. The taste of Jesse.

“Jess…” the name slurs on Michael’s tongue, feels like a prayer, a supplication, and Michael just wants another taste. Just…one…more…taste. Or, maybe a hundred more, because Jesse’s yummy, and his green halo aura is starting to glow and thrum, and Michael can hear it buzzing.

“Michael.” Jesse pushes him away, frowns, his eyebrows pucker together, and Michael reaches over to smooth them out, because he doesn’t like this look on Jesse. Doesn’t like the way the man’s looking at him, because it denies him the taste that he wants/needs.

“Jess,” Michael purrs, his fingers itch to touch, to burn with the heat of the object of his affection.

“What the hell has gotten into you, man?” Jesse’s face is a Picasso painting, and Michael’s head spins, because the colors are so bright, and Jesse’s face is too distorted, his hands much too shove-y.

He leans in close, breathes Jesse – sweat, gunpowder and oranges. The scent grounds him, and Michael closes his eyes, grips Jesse’s shoulders tight.

“It’s called, Sex Pollen,” the bartender shouts. “New drink. Pretty potent. The lady over there –” the bartender points toward a table near the entrance to the bar.

Michael swivels in his seat, tears his eyes away from Jesse for a second so that he can see who the bartender’s pointing at. It’s Fiona, and his mother. Their faces swim in his vision, and merge together. Bright, rouged smiles becoming one.

“Bought it for your buddy,” the bartender finishes, winks at Jesse, and pats him on the back. “Looks like someone’s getting lucky tonight.”

Jesse growls, and closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

“Sure,” Michael says, because now that Jesse’s given a name to what it is that’s thrumming in his veins, Michael wants it. Needs it. Needs to fuck now.

And Jesse’s shirt is much too complicated. Too many buttons. His pants are too tight, and the room around them is spinning, spinning, and the music’s too loud, the darkness too bright. The green surrounding Jesse throbs like a heartbeat, and Michael’s never wanted anything this much.

“What the hell is in this stuff?” Jesse asks. He’s fingering the now empty tumbler that Michael drank from, eyeing it cautiously, and sniffing. “Smells like Pine sol…”

Michael kisses the twist of Jesse’s mouth, tries to divest the man of the ridiculous tie that he wore that night. Wonders what it would be like to use that tie as a blindfold, or in lieu of handcuffs. It’s silk and slippery and Michael’s fingers ache to touch the flesh that’s hiding beneath the skin-suffocating clothing.

“Michael,” Jesse hisses into his ear, cages one of Michael’s wrists. “We can’t do this here, man. Not in public.”

“Why not?” Michael asks.

They’re alone, everyone else has melted into the background – joined the white noise of the jukebox, the twin, crimson smiles of his mother and former lover – and faded away. There’s only Jesse, and the burning inside of Michael that tells him that it’s time-here-now.

He sheds his skin. Opens his mouth, slides his tongue down to the center of Jesse, where the sweetest nectar can be found.

“Michael,” Jesse’s voice cracks, body shudders, and Michael has found a way to bend him, shape him the way he wants to. He’s Salvador Dali, and Jesse’s his canvas. Slips down to his knees and works the tense zipper loose. It’s easier to work than the multitude of buttons that cloak and choke, and make Michael’s work impossible.

Jesse’s hand’s on Michael’s head, fingers tugging hair; the other’s on Michael’s shoulder, and it’s a balancing act, and he’s begging, begging. Michael’s name spills forth from his mouth over and over again, restrained, like the prayer of a man condemned.

Michael touches. Tip of tongue. The head of Jesse’s weeping cock. Fingers. Balls, heavy and tight, ready.

_Fuck, yeah, shit, no, c’mon Michael. Fuck, fuck, Michael._

Michael tastes, sucks, slurps – Jesse’s fingers flex and bunch, and his hands hold Michael in place, keep him centered, grounded.

His tongue slips and slides, and he settles in place, on his knees, neck arched back, eyes locked on Jesse’s lips, the wordless sounds that escape them reach Michael’s ears, bounce off, and Michael’s dimly aware of the audience that’s gathered around them. They’re lips and hips and darkness bright as the sun. They’re ants from the height of a skyscraper, and he’s King Kong conquering the Empire State Building.

_Yeah, that’s it. Fuck, shit…I’m gonna…Michael…I think…fuck…unh…_

Jesse’s green halo is pulsing. Pulsing, and growing, and fuck Michael’s choking. He’s choking, and tasting, and Jesse’s eyes are the universe, his lips, the words falling from them are Michael’s gods. He worships that look, the heavy lidded eyes, the way that Jesse’s fingers dig into his flesh, pinching, bruising, and he’s choking, drowning, swallowing. Swallowing and Jesse’s lips are moving, moving and saying nothing.

Michael’s knees are sore, and Jesse’s leaning against him, boneless, spent, a soft, happy smile on his lips. Punch drunk, eyes burning with lust. Michael’s head’s buzzing, and the green halo around Jesse is throbbing.

Jesse’s fingers, his hands on Michael, are the only things keeping Michael from floating off into space; they tether him to the earth, to Jesse. And Michael wants more.

Jesse bats Michael’s hands away, his questing fingers. He hisses and zips, and pulls Michael to standing. Holds him up when Michael’s knees turn to jelly. Slaps money on the bar, and whispers, “Let’s finish this in private.”

“You’re welcome!” the bartender calls out.

Growls a, “Later,” to Fiona in passing.

Laughter, girlish and knowing, dances on the air, follows them through the bar. It’s dizzying and Michael can almost see it – pink bubbles that float and pop. They taste like cotton candy. Like the musk of Jesse when he’d swallowed the man whole. Earthy. Manly.

Dumb, struck mute from love-lust, Michael nods, lets Jesse walk them out of the bar, half-carrying him.

The balmy night air does nothing to ease the tension coiling in his gut, makes him want Jesse even more, and he doesn’t know if he _can_ wait. Doesn’t know that he won’t offer Jesse a replay of what happened in the bar, because that part of his brain – the part that curbs base impulses – is on vacation.

And Jesse’s pretty. His lips are full, ripe like cherries. Pink. Plump. Kissable.

“Michael,” Jesse’s voice acts as the slap that the fresh air should have, but Michael kisses him anyway, feels the release when Jesse finally comes undone and loses himself, moans, opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, and he almost drops the car keys.

The world is spinning. The green of Jesse is sizz...sizz…sizzling, coursing through Michael’s veins like electricity through a circuit.

“Michael,” Jesse’s voice is broken, the keys jangle.

Michael grinds his hips against Jesse’s, closes his eyes, feels their shared electricity down to the very soles of his feet. Jesse’s heartbeat becomes his own, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s being buckled into his seat, Jesse’s hand brushes his crotch, causing him to surge up with need.

“Easy there, tiger,” Jesse’s voice is captain, promises Michael that there’s more to come, Michael catches him by the throat, sucks and rouses, and Jesse pulls free. “No need to rush this.”

Rush. Rush. Rush.

Blood’s rushing in his veins, and the green glow that surrounds Jesse is getting brighter, hotter, bigger. It swallows Michael. Suffocates him. Steals his breath, because Jesse’s beautiful, and fuck, fuck, fuck.

He wants this. He wants Jesse, and his brain isn’t working the way it ought to work, but Michael doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because his brain is showing him what _could_ be, what _should_ be.

Green light undulating, undulating and engulfing. Jesse spreading him out on the bed, and when did they get home? When did the green light stop throbbing, and the air start tasting like pink lemonade, Jesse’s sweat, orange marmalade on toast?

“Tell me to stop,” Jesse’s voice is trembling.

_Fuck._

“Don’t stop,” Michael says. “Don’t stop.”

“But...the drink,” Jesse protests, breathless as Michael pulls him down for a kiss.

_Fuck._ It’s electric. He’s electric. Jesse’s electric, and Jesse can’t stop now. Can’t stop, because if he doesn’t, Michael won’t stop burning.

“Fuck me,” Michael says.

“But –“

Michael swallows Jesse’s protest with a kiss, bites, tastes blood. The green wavers, snaps back in place, and Michael _needs_ Jesse to fuck him now. To ease this not-pain ache that’s smoldering in his veins.

“Not the drink. Wanted this for a long time,” Michael manages to formulate his thoughts into words that he hopes make sense. Manages to shove them past tingling lips and shove them through the green haze that surrounds them.

“You sure?”

Michael’s done with words, because his lips don’t want to talk anymore. Answers Jesse with a punishing kiss. Loves the taste of rusted pennies that rush his mouth.

Jesse’s tongue is liquid smoke snaking its way to Michael’s core. Splitting him open. Claiming him.




Jesse is a goddamn powerhouse, and Michael’s a boneless jellyfish. He’s a puppet and Jesse’s the strings that pull him this way and that.

The strings that move him make Michael scream and cry in pleasure.

_Jesse, Jesse, Jesse._

He explodes. Spews white hot magma over the both of them.

Jesse’s slow to follow – his own pace leisurely by comparison to that of his fist on Michael’s cock.

Michael’s body fits Jesse like a glove.

Perfect, close, tight, and Jesse’s a welcome intrusion. What Michael needs. What he’s needed from the moment they met.

Green flashes, contracts in on itself and implodes, shoots from Jesse’s fingertips, his lips, washes over Michael, and it’s pure magic.

Magic that Michael wants to experience over and over again. Magic that he hopes will never end.

And they kiss. Lazy. Long. Lips, teeth, tongues, nipping, grazing, raising up bruised welts on throats, collarbones, chests.

They kiss, and fondle, and grope like randy teenagers, and Michael has never felt this complete after fucking. Never like the half of a whole. Incomplete without his other half.

Michael falls asleep with Jesse wrapped around him – the engulfing green pulsing and fading as morning starts peeking in through the cracks of the blinds.

He’s happy. Whole for the first time in his life.

_How the fuck did Fiona know?_ is the first coherent thought that surfaces when the fog starts to lift, and Michael ignores it in favor of shifting closer to Jesse, nuzzling into the crook of Jesse’s neck, and falling back to sleep, keeping this moment for as long as he can.

“You okay?” Jesse’s voice is hoarse when they finally wake – hours, maybe a day, later.

“No regrets,” Michael says, kisses a bruise he’d left on Jesse’s neck, and it’s electric, even without the pulse of green light to guide him.


End file.
